


Twice More, No Feeling

by framedhim



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 11:38:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framedhim/pseuds/framedhim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wallowing into the deep end, frozen in the way it used to be, the new normal comes to a head.  It’s not knowing better, not having the ability, not caring and managing to carry on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twice More, No Feeling

**Title** :  Twice More, No Feeling  
 **Author** :  [framedhim](http://www.livejournal.com/update.bml)  
 **Rating** :  NC-17  
 **Pairing** :  Soulless!Sam/Dean  
 **Warning** :  Violence and Gore—show level in my opinion, dub-con as it is Soulless!Sam, rimming, comeplay  
 **Disclaimer** :  Characters belong to CW, Kripke, and co.  Using their toys in inappropriate manners, not for profit  
   
Prompt written for [salt_burn_porn](http://salt-burn-porn.livejournal.com/).  Prompt, ‘into the fire,’ by [keep_waking_up](http://keep-waking-up.livejournal.com/)   
  
  
Huge thanks to a very last minute look-over by [abeautifullie3](http://www.livejournal.com/update.bml)   
The formatting on this, as it didn't want to cooperate, and the edit will be applied later--wanted to get this up now to meet the deadline.    
   


+

He dips his toes in and comes out unscathed. 

As unclean and sullied as before, proving the way this is supposed to go as dead wrong.

There’s a lie in the story, between the lines of ancient text and prayers spoken between sputtered breath of a sinner and that of a crazy man.   

Journey meant to suss out the details for himself, wading in to catch the buzz.

As unfulfilling as was imagined, he circles his fingers on the surface, lips pulled into a sneer.

+

“…and I told you—man, I told you to stay back!  One thing and you can’t even give me that!”

The door to the home they’re squatting is flung open, cracks against the opposite wall, leaving a score in the dim grey paint of the kitchen.  A visible mark to accompany furrowed eyebrows, managing to effect thoroughly pissed off.

Not two feet inside the room, muddied boots staining the faux tile, Dean throws an upper right hook.   Busted, bloodied knuckles connect with thin air, the target head moving at the last second.  It picks up, the tempo of emotion, one-sided.

Of course.

“Don’t move when I’m trying to kick your ass!”

He doesn’t flinch, using a combo lead leg-clinch-and-choke John used on more than one occasion to subdue both of them when needed, when they were aged past tadpoles and catching up on him in height.  John didn’t pull his punches, and his headlocks didn’t end until there was breaking free or passing out. 

Dean doesn’t play around either, the combo a dirty trick, uneven method in the midst of training; only, where it worked all those other times, tonight, Sam’s ready.

There are guidelines, rules to fighting taller opponents, ones which include not losing a balanced center (chi, a reminder that it’s what it’s called and one doesn’t care that it’s geeky) or losing focus.  Don’t let anger cloud judgment and tuck elbows , duck in, and throw a few jabs.  Too easy to be pulled in, legs swiped from beneath or worse—forced to the ground. 

The shorter man lets anger win.  Missteps a hair too close and Sam snags the moment effortlessly.

There’s a slip, clinch, and a neck hold, forearm the size of a two-by-four squeezing until blue and black dance behind his open eyes.

A piece of debris on the floor scrapes a busted nose that was injured in the hunt as he's released and pushed face-first to the floor.  Dean manages to get his arms out to the sides in push-up position, elbows out and up, palms flat against the slippery flooring.

When Sam crouches down, faded jean material over a bony knee rubbing against a scraped cheek, he pays no mind to the blood oozing from a torn corner of plump lips, nor the slow, leaky drip of it from flared nostrils.

What is under inspection, what gets Sam's voice going, are the tremors coursing through his brother’s body:  the force of them ripples up Dean’s back with each harsh breath, making the brand new blue Henley move a millimeter across a broad expanse of shoulders.  The panic visible is minimal; the fight-ready stance means pride is winning out.

“Told you, I was going in.  You were being too precise with the body count.”  Sam side-steps the glare given at that and continues.  “ Now, we can continue to tussle, or you can shower—seriously, you’re rank—and you can hang out on your bed, watch your vanilla porn, and maintain the progression of your cirrhosis.  Or not.  Waste of my time reasoning with you on this; you know it, and I don’t care.  Already bored, pick one.”

Crouched down on one bent knee, Sam's offered hand is shoved away, and he stands quickly as soon as Dean gets himself upright.  There’s fury written all over his brother’s face, a symptom he's learned to ignore as it's all been heard before.  Heard the, “As if the night couldn’t take a turn for the worse, let it not be said but for disenchanted soulless freaks that it wasn’t sincerely trying.”

What he doesn’t see is Dean making it to the hamper in the bathroom, sweaty ass-smelling boxer briefs in hand, before he realizes his dick is fat, chemical dump aftermath.   Doesn’t hear the retching in the commode or the broken sound his brother makes watching his come swirl down the shower drain.

+

There was supposed to be an uproar, a ruckus.   A heavenly host of fury reigning down on them while the devil played in the filth they create.  The host are busy bees, too pre-occupied with civil war and general douchiness, and the devil—the devil may care.  Incest.  The devil dances on bones and hisses out wrecked knock-knock jokes while picking his teeth with their forgotten brother’s soul, but he may, probably, give pause.

The fury never comes and the guilt never grows too big for their meat. 

No one there to stop it, keep them safe from themselves.

+

On route 132, there’s a barn that leans too far over, maroon paint chipped and peeled from the old wood sides. 

Mrs. Milt, stay-at-home mom and president of the neighborhood watch, is missing her five year old.  She’ll continue to do so, because Dean isn’t about to take what they find back with them.

A rat runs over a strand of black hair, button nose crushed, and had Sam had his soul, he would have knelt beside the ragdoll and closed lifeless eyes before sprinkling the salt.

The void that is Sam asks Dean when would be the best time to shop for supplies given that their schedule has taken a hit.. What with driving so far out of their way, and if Corinth is as big a piece of shit town as the one they’re in, “You’ve been there.  I’m just saying, I need boots.  And not the kind that fall apart at the seams when I start ru…what?”  Dean stares into the fire that’s started, crackles of baby fat drowning out the yammering dialogue.

They keep the burn small, the field across the way on the other side of the backroad has a house that’s lived in.  Attention is not wanted even though the sheriff’s deputy is parked some thirty minutes up the mountain.  There’s no worries except in how Mrs. Milt isn’t going to like the answer that yes, they did burn the locket too. 

Sam doesn’t come with him, not for lack of offering to go and tell the newly childfree mother whatever she wants to know—the condition, the treatment, everything.  It’s a level of trauma they haven’t experienced in a few months, what with Dean's shut-your-mouth talk the last time, so Dean says to stay put and not fuck the first pair of boobs that walks past their motel door. 

+

It’s not the first time.

There was consent.  Each time, Dean would never.  Ever.  Sam wasn’t so sure signing in blood was the joke it was made out to be.  It was undercover jerk-offs, hands on one another’s dick, Sam finally an age that was legal in every state of the union.  Two-way street, one wanted and the other one took the initiative. 

Kissing.  First time during training, dad one week out on a hunt, application to Stanford long since sent.  A huddled mess, twisted on top of one another.  They’d creamed their sheets together for a solid month, and had yet to lock lips. 

The bus to California, the rare phone calls before Jess—Sam fisting his length the second Dean started. “In the Impala, Sammy.  Remember that time…,” and, “Back alley, little brother, saw some glitter from the club and thought of you covered…,” or, “Catching isn’t that—I think I like it more than I should…”

Fucking.  First time after Black Rock, threat too much of a high to shake it off in the shower.  It’s as awkward as they make it:  too much lube, the bedsprings creak and sing so loud it drowns out the highway drone, and Dean gets a Charlie horse from spreading his legs too wide.  Hole dripping K-Y on the bedspread because Sam’s strokes are wicked long, entire yardstick length of him a slow push pull.

It’s consent and it’s not talking about it.  Leave it alone, let it be, get it out of their systems.  Keep driving.

When the body in front of him sluices through, water dripping down his brother’s body, there’s nothing new.  It’s the same one he bent over in Albuquerque, dripping from head to toe in ectoplasm; it’s the same face he knows from growing up, from raising him, from staring up at him between his knees and mouth stretched wide around his cock. 

He thinks he should be concerned, that persons without a void would question starting up incestuous once-was relationships with a partner that’s one foot back in the grave and suicidal to boot. 

When the sculpted chin in front of him stubbornly refuses to turn his way, a nudged toe catches against his beneath, and it’s as perfect a time as any.

+

All the cases culminate, the demon going on a killing spree in what looks remarkably like revenge.  A P.O box pick-up gives them a head-start on a side-project that won’t be quelled.  Pretty Marissa Lank, she of the doe brown eyes and head account executive for Dwuley Advertising, has been a very productive meatsuit.   Midnight finds her making photocopies of the agency’s intern copywriter.  All the parts of him.  His tongue is a weirdly artistic looking piece made on expensive blue and green flecked stationary.

Marissa might still be kicking, but that doesn’t stop Sam from wrapping a left hand around her throat and squeezing.  He lifts and throws, her body connecting sharply against a black framed plaque of the company’s BBB license.  The glass of it shatters and a large, jagged shard sticks out of her neck, blood spraying when she lunges.

By the time Dean spits out enough Latin to have her fessing up the pertinent location details of her boss, Sam is done toeing over the bodies intact enough to check over, eyes sweeping the periphery of the room as if he’s bored to tears with the task.  Boredom in a soulless creature is a trigger symptom, but Dean manages to drop the ball. 

With the shard dug in deep, the carotid artery nicked, and the pallor of Marissa’s skin a sickly white, Sam’s lip turns up in a sneer.  “We’re done.”  His arm shoots forward. Ruby’s knife causes the young executive’s body to spark from within, puny lower level demon shrieking as it dies.

It’s a bitch.  “Are you kidding me with this?  Damn it, Sam, I wasn’t!”

Puckered lips, eyes narrowed, Sam has questions.  “The details.  You had them; we’ve been in here with our hands up our asses for ten minutes, lights on all over the place.  She was shouting, Dean.  How long do we stick around before security gets their fat lazy asses here?”

Marissa Lank is physically lighter in his grip despite her being dead weight.  Perhaps it’s to do with the demon finally out, so Dean pays it no more attention, picking up her abused body—her neck crunching as her head lulls backwards, and it’s not the glass but a strong grip that caused that damage—and placing it on top of the others. 

When the salt hits, lighter fluid splashing across open wounds and tangled limbs, Dean rolls his eye upwards.  “Stop shooting your load before I get mine.  I was one syllable from finding the exact warehouse boss bitch is holing up in.”  An answer isn’t expected, which is good, as none is offered.  Sam has said his piece and that’s that.  Before starting the fire, they both take a final look around.  The screen for power point presentations is down, a pattern of bizarre symbols written in black marker. 

“Picture?”

Sam’s iPhone comes out, “Yeah, got it.  CCTV and computers.”

“All of ‘em, use some of that pent-up Hulk and start crushing hard drives.”  Dean tosses Sam the crowbar Marissa used with obvious gusto, and points to individual laptops the demon had open.  “Clean-up.”  Only, beyond torching, everything else is too gruesome to know where to start, and fifteen minutes later, they tear up the nearest highway until the signs for Louisville come into their crosshairs.

+

Circling boss demon’s haunt doesn’t go off without a hitch.  

The hitch shows in the tense nature of shoulders up by ears.  The split-second needed to neutralize the situation is blown by Dean crunching too loudly.

The motel room is trashed by the time they stop throwing one another around, the bits of entrails from using a shotgun and Ruby’s knife litter the floor.   Swirl down the drain.   Follow them both for the next three hundred miles and a taco stand where Sam throws his food away, not disgusted. 

Irritable.

Feeling seems to make his skin prickle, and uncertainty makes it worse.  Causes accidents.  Stupid mistakes.  So they take some time-out; rather, Dean decides for them that they need some time off.  He calls the shots or else Sam can go fuck himself and find another ride again, only the mere saying it out loud, to Sam, gives him a migraine.  Sam without a soul, on his own, isn’t on the table.

The lake they’re directed to, Garth cashing in a solid favor for them, it’s up near Isle of White.  Tiny lake, no fish, on private land owned by a retired hunter and his Wiccan partner.  Both are out on sabbatical, traipsing along quite nicely in South America.  

It’s theirs for the taking as long as it's restocked.  Free range of the property, a two-story salt-shaker with black shutters and a back deck.  It’s a set-up, but really, it’s not.  There’s the warning, they’ve searched the entire library just off the kitchen…bookshelves piled high with manila folders rather than any texts, tomes.  The baptisms, the waters blessed to purify, the rituals engrained in the lake rock to protect any who bathe. 

Sam wants to swim, doesn’t give one damn as to what the squirrely hoodoo might do to the void.  He rolls his eyes as Dean looks over the water with something of a reverence, freckled fists clenched and leaning into Sam like he might physically drag him in.   The water is a shock, smooth dive in after Dean’s full body jump.  There may not be grace inside either of them but something shines.  It’s not an emotion, not a feeling Sam has any other time.  He puzzles that the water brings that forward.  Confused now that he knows it’s there, knew in the way their angles caught the air and sliced into the lake.

Grace in the way the both of them catch the other’s eyes, finally.  Sam wiping the water from his eyes, mild laugh coughed up uncomfortably when Dean spits out water like a fountain statue.  Grace in the way Dean shrugs off the last shred of hope weighing him down.  Similar to the weight of that ad exec as Dean carried her to the makeshift pyre, the woman’s burden gone.  Lightweight gate, walking back to the house as unclean as before, and when he turns to Sam, he nods at the void.  Accepts what’s before him. 

There’s no one to watch over them, to stop the fall. 

+

A desk in the middle of the den blocks Sam.  Water trails him through the house, French doors closed and sigils checked.  The whole of not feeling means that structure and ritual can be easily followed despite the body’s want.  Right now, Sam wants:  to fuck, to make sure Dean recognizes that the old ways are gone but the new ones are worth it, to stop fidgeting with the details, stop allowing the nothingness to cause missions to fail.

If Sam has to fix those issues by way of his brother’s ass, so be it.  

“Get in the bedroom.”

Dean nods, pushes off the den’s white-trimmed doorframe and heads down the hallway, pert hairy ass catching Sam’s eye.  Muscular thighs first disappear into the bathroom and re-emerge to the bedroom opposite.  Sam tracks him while he finishes drying off, throws the towel over the back of the sofa and tilts his head left and right, cracks the bones.

“We need to talk about this?”  It’s the only opening he’s going to offer.  Not caught off guard in the least when Dean spins on a heel and raises to his full height, face stony.

“We do this, it’s the way Sam—not you, but Sam you…”  The quiet moment after the hesitation, no funny barbs or light affirmations, sink that last clarification home.  “The Sam that you used to be, the one I’m trying to shove back in you, I can’t.  I can’t, dude.  I’m—we’re going to do this the way it used to be, the way he’d consent.  I’ll take full responsibility for the fallout.”

The bedroom is lit by the noon-day sun, filtered in through dainty sheers.  The way Dean faces him, half his face is covered in shadows, the other so brightly lit, Sam can just imagine the flames.  There’s a box fan blowing and whatever moisture was left on their bodies dries, leaving behind goose bumps.  

When his hand shoots out, Dean flinches for a fraction of a second.  He never eases into the grip, not the way the background knowledge whispers what used to be in Sam’s mind.  Dean relaxed under his mouth, limp with hands constricting his throat because he got off on it, a shattered mess of accepting tears while being rimmed.  None of that is here now, but Sam’s grip is a promise to get them there.

“You put all that guilt between us, the only one suffering is you.”  A step closer, thumb sweeping across Dean’s cinched eyebrows to smooth them out.  “I can build you a new starting line, with what we have here.  If your kid brother ever comes back, if he’s half the man you worship him to be, he’ll understand.  I don’t gain a thing by taking you against your will.  We’re better together, as long as you’re in proper straights.  Figure it out now.  Yes, I stay.  No, I walk, because I’m not letting your self-sacrificing, emotional pit of a soul get us both killed.”

Dean throws a hand up to cup the one holding the side of his face.  “Healing power of a good fuck, Sam?”  A cocky grin follows, and his other hand wraps around Sam’s length.  Strokes him to half-hard and rolls his sack in his hands.

A push and a smirk are all Sam offers to the acceptance.  It’s an agreement.  Nothing signed in stone, but it’ll do.  He meant what he said:  nothing to gain from screwing the older brother over, or calling him out on false bravado.  “Lube.  Fingers in your ass, now.”

Dean hisses through the stretch, the memory of burn hitting him quick until he’s up to three fingers, hole a rosy pink and the noise from scissoring them, twisting them in and out of his ass has Sam moving from the end of the bed.  He fists Dean’s hair, neck pulled taut, and smiles when there’s no flinch. 

As hard as he’ll be until he gets tucked up inside, Sam strokes himself casually and follows the track of Dean’s eyes.  The pinch of being yanked back, spine curved and shoulder raised back, Dean’s voice comes out rusty.  “Condom.”

Sam laughs, loudly, as he lets go of Dean’s head to free up his hand.  Using both, he grabs the narrow hips in front of him and yanks him back, pushing and pulling after until Dean is on his hands and knees, thighs spread wide so that the line of his cock is nearly resting against the bed.   

“No.”  When he shoves in, there’s nothing gentle in his moves, and when he angles down immediately, pushing the body beneath him to the proper place, he nails what he’s aiming for.  The plan to get Dean off quickly is apparent, balls deep and relentless.  By the fifth stroke in, Sam’s patience snaps.

Each punch in, Dean’s breathing gets choppier.  One knee on the bed, a shove forward and Sam’s up with him, both knees, Dean’s legs spread wide and body flat.  Sam places a hand on the juncture of back between his brother’s shoulder blades, presses down until Dean’s immobile.  There’s a wet slap from where his balls hit and Sam stops, digs in like he’ll find more space.  Ruts in with a grinding motion, and a sharp gasp follows from the face buried in the pillows. 

“You’re going to leak.  Each time, gonna breed you.  Make a new you and me.”

Liquid heat splatters against his knee.  Sam doesn’t bother to move, knows his brother got off on the pain and having clarity on who plays what role, and slams into him twice more.   The rush of filling up the body, the brother beneath him, spins him up; it spins him higher than he’s been for months, up and out of the filmy gauze of being blank and void long enough to know pleasure.

He pulls out, base primal urge pleased at the load of spend tucked up where it should be so that only a bit pools on an asscheek.  Sam is light, free for the time being, open to manhandle and clear enough to stand the bitching that it creates.  The slap to Dean’s ass, the spread of his cheeks so that Sam can lean in and taste, has just that effect.

Dean isn’t able to get up, but his head rises in protest, mouth shooting off, so Sam sticks his tongue up in his hole as far it’ll go to chase the taste.  Chase the background whispers.   

They’re unclean things, no one willing to stop them.  Forward progression, neither cares to stop themselves. 

He steps in, and Dean follows. 

 

 

 


End file.
